


In the Dresser

by yourKitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 23:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourKitty/pseuds/yourKitty
Summary: You come home to find someone searching through your drawers.





	In the Dresser

Lengthy, dreary work day. So typical of your “profession.” 

Receptionist. 

And you couldn’t even get lucky enough to have similarly disgruntled and entertaining co-workers headed by an eccentric and socially stunted boss as you’d witnessed and enjoyed so many times on television. However, this was what you had to work with now, and you had to accept it. You tossed your keys on the thrifted coffee table and you plopped yourself down on your thrifted, lumpy yet unexpectedly cozy couch, slinking down to rest your head on the needle threaded pillow decorated with childish microscopic sequin beads. Closing your eyes, you forced yourself to drift off into some much-desired adequate rest. That is, until you heard some un-discreet rummaging in your bedroom. 

“What fresh misery is this.” It escaped your mouth in a groaned mumble as you moved to your feet, trudging to obtain your emergency metal bat. You took petite steps around the corner, and halted to a strange pause. There was a tall man, almost six foot, which was to you, gigantic. His tan trenchcoat fell to his calves. You could only catch a glimpse of his face in profile. It was somehow soft and rugged and quietly aged simultaneously, with enticing lips. His eyes: you wished to get a closer look into them, able to make out that they were a clear, sky blue, complementing his dark hair as an offset. They remained at a downward rounded angle, creased by his eyelids, accentuated by his long, dark eyelashes. His brows knitted in confusion as he examined the contents of the drawer he opened. You took in this sight for a bit too long. He could feel your presence, and turned to acknowledge it. 

With a far, silent step, you hid yourself again behind the drywall. The floor creaked in clear, eerie response, and you heard hefty footsteps coming your way. You had no clue how the man didn’t hear you arrive. You held the bat defensively, ready to strike as he inched closer. Abruptly, he stopped, watching you in innocent perplexion. He didn’t seem too terrified that you were braced to do some major damage on him. Calmly, he asked you to discard the weapon. His gentle disposition nearly convinced you to obey; however, you couldn’t take a chance on it. You took an uneasy step back, and your feet hit the floor hard, causing your knee and entire lower half of your leg to wobble in fear. 

Shakily you admitted, “I don’t want to hurt you. Just, please get out of my apartment.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you either. I’m not going to,” he ensured. Contrary to the situation at hand, your betraying senses focused on the rasp that laced his unexpectedly deep tone. He took a gentle step toward you, his arm half stretched with his hand in an assuring, lazy position. His fingers outstretched and bent, demonstrating that he wasn’t in motivation or any rush to use force. You took note of this and reluctantly lowered your weapon, but perpetuated the deathly grip you had on its handle. 

The front door was shaken and rattled by its knob, causing you to startle and move that direction, bat in position. A man’s voice on the other side commanded that the door be opened; you assumed that he was addressing your “harmless” intruder. 

He motioned for you to stay back as he proceeded to take care of business. With a swift flick or two of the wrist, he unlatched the lock and opened the door to confront the two men. They were tall and attractive like him, but maybe not to the same degree on the latter. He proceeded to explain to them that there “was nothing of use in here” and advised them to search elsewhere. 

The tallest caught a glimpse of you, frozen, readily in position to swing. Apparently he couldn’t suppress his grin, and the other couldn’t suppress his eye roll. As if you didn’t have a reason to be in fear of these strange men infiltrating my apartment. 

You found the courage to speak up and demand them leave, if there was in fact nothing of use there. Stopping dead in your speech, though, you went on to demand an explanation. The men exchanged unsure glances, unwilling to disclose that information. 

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.” 

They eyed you like you were an overly-curious child; the type that asked “why” at every turn. “I’m going to turn you in if you don’t tell me,” you threatened. 

“Hey, you don’t have to go that far,” the one with the worn leather jacket and pouty lips stepped forward with a stern intonation and a hard look. You wouldn’t allow him to intimidate you, and neither would the man in the trenchcoat. He interrupted the other man’s way, arm outstretched firmly in front of him, as if for protection, despite the difference in height and strength. Though, you couldn’t quite read his strength yet. He proceeded then to toss a strict glare of his piercing yet gentle eyes, and the other understood, pressing his lips together in exasperation. 

“I may tell you, if you promise not to pass it on.” 

“I won’t,” you replied in feigned conviction. You made it a habit to never break a promise, but you weren’t entirely certain if keeping this was the best idea. Why were these men, probably figments of your dreams, going door-to-door to snoop through possessions of unknowing citizens? That is, as far as you know. 

You were taken aside, into your room once again, and the man confided in you about their motivations. He finally promised to you his name. Castiel. You thought it was beautiful, much like him. The meat of the story: he and his friends are looking for signs of a demon terrorizing this insanely small town. Demons? Why? How? 

You took advantage of the moments he provided you to allow the information to sink in. Nodding sluggishly, you finally retorted, “Demons aren’t real, man.” 

He wasn’t amused by denial. The stoicism plastered on his features wasn’t swayed, in a way as if he expected you to take his words unquestioned. Monotonously he reinforced the issue. “I’m not lying to you. I have no reason to lie. This matter is very serious… and we have to protect you.” 

It didn’t convince you, and you demonstrated that, shaking your head in dismissal. He seemed very honest, though, and caring, to your stubborn dismay. So you couldn’t just rush the sweet boy out. It prompted you to allow his stay, or, more truthfully, convinced him to stay. Although you rejected belief in the supernatural, you longed to hear more of his fables. Somehow you charmed him into it.

And so he was left behind by his colleagues and spent the night with you, confiding in you about his monstrous escapades, slaying demons and sirens and vampires and everything in-between.


End file.
